


bright as the mail of a war-worn king

by jezebel_rising



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezebel_rising/pseuds/jezebel_rising
Summary: Fics transferred over from livejournal since I have no copy otherwise. All were written in or around 2007. Each chapter is another short fic.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Lancelot, Dagonet/Tristan (King Arthur 2004), Galahad/Gawain (King Arthur 2004), Gawain/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Kudos: 7





	1. Arthur/Lancelot: words never said

One: Arthur/Lancelot

As a commander of troops, Arthur had wanted the boys to respect him, to trust him and above all else, not to fear him. He never expected that respect and trust to turn to love, and from the most unlikely of sources.

That Lancelot had hated his new life in Briton was an understatement. But the boy had thrown himself into his study of weapons and warfare to such a degree that his teachers were taken aback by it. It was Arthur, though, who had ended up bearing the brunt of Lancelot’s hatred for his new life.

The boy had always challenged him. The dark, curly hair still childishly soft, and his face free of a beard; Arthur originally pegged the boy as much younger than he actually was – something which the older Lancelot had never let him live down.

Memories of their past slipped from his mind as he stared down at the man under him. Sweat-slick and panting in the darkness of Arthur’s rooms, the Sarmatian knight tightened his legs around his former commander’s waist and surged up to meet the next thrust. Arthur’s throat grew tight and he closed his eyes, burning the sight into his memory for all time.

Strong hands came up and pulled him down onto the hard body below him. Calloused fingers explored the breadth of his back, the angled planes of his face, and ghosted over his eyelids and lips. The man beneath him murmured strange words into Arthur’s ears, even as the Roman commander thrust hard into his pliant body.

Arthur had never asked Lancelot what the words meant. Sitting now at the foot of the man’s grave, he tilted his face to the sky and closed his eyes. The burning light in the younger man’s eyes had always taken his breath away when he saw it. The wicked curl of the knight’s mouth made parts of Arthur stir in memory. He opened his eyes and tracked a wheeling dot across the sky, his vision too blurry to spot any details.

He was glad he never asked Lancelot what the words meant, for now he could pretend they always meant ‘I love you’.


	2. Galahad/Gawain: what happens in the stables...

The blond knight was clueless when it came to women. The others had long despaired of ever teaching him the subtle gestures of luring a good woman into bed. Gawain had never understood the niceties of it – and had many a sore cheek to show for it.

Galahad, on the other hand, took to women like a duck to water. Since the boy hit puberty, he had stolen the ladies from all of the knights by doing little more than looking at a girl and smiling. The working girls had fawned over him, teaching him much in the dark hours of the night, and much to Gawain’s embarrassment. The slightly older knight couldn’t count the number of times he had walked into their rooms and had encountered his brother-in-arms mid-thrust. After a while it had become routine, so Gawain thought little about dashing into his rooms for whatever it was he had forgotten, and ignoring the squawking that came from the bed.

It was during these times that Gawain fled to the stables, to Tristan’s territory. He helped the older knight with his fledgling hawk, brushing the horses and all other things that needed to be done. And it was there in the dark of the stables where the older knight had leaned into him, pressing him back against a rough wooden wall and had stolen Gawain’s first kiss.

There was much passion between them, but only friendship in the end. They were a bad fit – both wanting something the other couldn’t give, but clinging to each other in the dark nonetheless. Gawain kept a secret name locked tight behind his teeth – just as he knew Tristan did, although the other man would whimper out the name in his sleep, while Gawain was watching. The blond knight didn’t know whom he was sorrier for – the scout or the dark haired warrior lusting after an idol he could never possess.

But sometime along the years, Galahad stopped looking at the women and grew quiet whenever Gawain was around. The two knights were still as close as brothers on the battlefield – one always knowing where the other was at all times. But it was in the fort, when the blood of their enemies had been washed away that the awkwardness set in.

The blond never saw the shifty looks Galahad sent his way when he slipped off into the night with Tristan. Nor did he see the hunkered shadow hiding near the hay bales, watching as Tristan slipped into his body and rode him hard. He never saw the scuttling visitor that ran from the stables as their breath warmed the night air and their cries echoed in their ears. But Tristan did.

The scout made sure to stay close to Gawain after that. Hogging his attention with quiet words and useful play – the two drew stares from unlikely sources, and the scout grew pleased. One set of pale eyes, the other dark, now followed their moves around the fort constantly, and lean bodies found many reasons to brush up against them late at night in the ale house. Tristan’s smile grew as the challenging stares faced him down and hard hands gripped his face so he couldn’t pull away. Lancelot’s weight forced him down into a pile of hay and Tristan caught him with arms and legs, pulling him close so the other man couldn’t get away.

But it was Gawain that was left confused, alone in his room after Galahad had nearly called Tristan out in a duel and then taken his arm and pulled him away. The blond had had only a moment to exchange startled glances with his wild-haired friend. The blond sat on the edge of his bed and leaned his elbows on his knees, watching Galahad pace angrily along the length of the room.

“What is it, Galahad?” He tilted his head to one side. “What’s come over you?”

The dark haired knight wheeled on him, his eyes flashing. “You! You’re – in the _stables_ – with him! I saw you!” He advanced on Gawain and took him by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. “You – you care for him!”

Gawain blinked up at the other man. “Of course I do, Galahad. As I care…as I care for everyone. He is a fellow knight, and I would die for him.”

“No! That’s not what I mean!” The younger knight’s fingers dug into Gawain’s shoulders. “You. Care. For. Him.”

  
Gawain frowned. “Galahad –,” he got no further. Thin lips pressed against his own and pushed him down onto the softness of the bed. He let out a startled grunt as a heavy weight drove the air from his chest, but his arms came up to wrap tight around the muscled shoulders. He opened his mouth for Galahad and let his hands slide deep into the thick, curly hair. He closed his eyes and let the other knight settle on top of him, rocking into him steadily, their breaths matched as they panted in time to the creak of the bed frame.

Tristan and Gawain found many excuses to hide themselves away in the darkness of the stables from then on.


	3. Gawain/Tristan

Tristan ran a hand through Gawain’s tangled hair. The knight was sitting on the ground with his head thrown back against the wall and his elbows planted on his knees, dead asleep. Tristan cocked his head to one side and curled a strand of blond hair around his index finger, studying the color intently, as if it would answer the questions that had been plaguing his dreams for weeks.

Gawain’s eyes opened, pinning the scout in place. His breath froze in his throat and his eyes widened as Gawain reached up, grabbed his wrist and pulled him down off his perch. The air rushed out of the scout’s lungs as he landed, and found his lips covered by a warm mouth. He wrestled with strong arms even as his legs tangled with Gawain’s.

It was one of the more pleasant ways to spend a sticky, summer day.


	4. Gawain/Tristan

The skin between Gawain’s shoulder blades tingled. He looked around, guiding his horse in a tight circle, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied the forest around him.

Technically behind the Wall, the stretch of the road was supposed to be relatively Woad-free, or else Arthur would have sent him with a partner. Gawain rubbed the back of his neck and clucked at his steed, picking up his horse’s pace from a walk to a trot. The feeling passed, but only after a long, breath-rattling stretch.

The next time the feeling crept up Gawain’s spine, he stopped his horse completely. He rested his hand on his axe and studied the trees around him. His eyes tracked a rustle of bushes to his right, which spooked his horse. He set his jaw and dismounted, freeing his weapons.

“Who’s there?” The eerie quiet answered him. He put his back to his horse’s flank and waited.

That someone would sneak up on the other side of his horse and pull his feet out from under him was not what Gawain was expecting. He spat out a mouthful of dirt and rolled over, making sure to tumble clear of his horse’s hooves.

He scrambled to his feet and faced his attacker. “Tristan!” He sheathed his short sword and glared at the scout. “What do you think you were doing?”

The scout’s eyes gleamed. “Ambushing you.”

Gawain’s breath whooshed out of him as the scout tackled his midsection. Dazed by the fall, Gawain was hardly aware of being pulled away into the bushes and pressed onto his back, the warm, steady weight of the scout settling over him.

It was only afterward that Gawain remembered the missive that Arthur had needed delivered.


	5. Galahad/Gawain, Tristan

The scout shifted his position, trying to relieve the feel of the rough bark of the tree digging into his spine. He shook his hair out of his eyes and watched the two men below. Tugging at the strings of his pants, he loosened the waist just enough to slip his hand into the warm crevice and curl his fingers around his length.

Gawain had Galahad pinned beneath him. They were naked, and their skin glowed in the pale summer sunlight that had managed to sneak its way through the heavy veil of trees. Pale in some places, scarred in others – they were glorious in Tristan’s eyes.

Galahad threw back his head and gasped as Gawain thrust forward. Tristan grunted and pulled faster at the heat between his legs. He let his eyes fall half closed as he watched the two knights move, his breath catching in his throat as Gawain took Galahad’s mouth in a rough kiss.

He came with them, his own cry trampled silent somewhere deep in his throat. He hung his head and let his hair shield his vision from the pair on the ground, so he wouldn’t have to see them in the aftermath, so together and so happy. He waited until they had cleaned up and had mounted their horses, heading back to the barracks at a swift pace. Tristan leaned his head back against the tree and blinked up at the darkening sky, curling his arms around his middle and ignoring the chill that was creeping its way into his clothes.


	6. Gawain/Tristan, Galahad

Being the youngest knight in Arthur’s regiment was something of a sore spot for Galahad. The last to be picked up, the last to grow; the scrawniest, the slowest learner – Galahad knew that if it hadn’t been for Gawain looking out for him all those years ago, Galahad would have never have survived his first few years.

But watching his brother, the man who had replaced his family, slink off into the night with the wild-haired scout; a burning feeling had entered Galahad’s gut, stealing his breath. The two older knights had the same look in their eyes that Lancelot and Arthur did – the dark shine and the quick curl of the mouth that meant a tumble in the hayloft, and no place for Galahad to go.

So the youngest knight in Arthur’s service slouched low in his chair and buried his nose in a mug of ale. He flirted with the serving maids and the whores that hovered at the edges of the drinking house, but his eyes strayed constantly to the alley that lead to the stables, and his mind traveled farther.

Even in his rooms – his own now, ever since Arthur had decided he was old enough to bunk by himself – with a warm, pretty girl rocking beneath him, Galahad’s mind tumbled down the hall and into the chilly night air, his mind painting pictures of Gawain and Tristan together. And when he came, he gritted his teeth together, holding back some formless name that he did not want to acknowledge.

But resting on his back, with the fading scent of the girl in his bed, his mind returned to the dark night air and the soft sounds of the horses in the stable.


	7. Gawain/Galahad

It was all Gawain’s fault. Galahad knew it, but couldn’t exactly put the idea into words that coherently resembled a sentence. It just was.

The damn kilt was cold, even in the summertime. The thick, sticky grease that he’d slathered onto his legs made his skin stick to the leather of his saddle. The thin barrier of his loincloth between his skin and the jostling back of his horse was nerve-wracking. And it was all Gawain’s fault.

Of course, when Gawain came in later, helping him out of the ridiculously high kilt and managed to scrape some of that thick, sticky grease into far more delicate places, Galahad’s protests slipped from his mind. His anger at the other knight vanished as he was lifted and turned, spread against the cool tiles of the baths. His thoughts deserted him as he was pinned to the floor, slid into and made to forget the grudging Latin Arthur had forced them all to learn.

But later, after the sticky grease had been washed off and he was tucked under Gawain’s chin, he’d remember. After all, it was all the smug bastard’s fault.


	8. Tristan/Dagonet

The first time Dagonet had seen Tristan’s naked form was in the baths. It had been late at night, on a hot, sticky summer evening. Dagonet had been unable to sleep, and after a while the stale odor of his sweat had begun to bother him. So he had gone to the baths.

Bathed in moonlight, Tristan was just rising out of the pool when Dagonet had stopped in the shadows of the door. Scars thick and small trailed over the other man’s body, pale against the dusty tone of his skin. Dagonet’s mouth had run dry as his fellow knight had bent over in front of him, reaching for a towel. Dagonet had had to stagger back and head for his rooms at a hobbled pace, to take care of a problem that was far more pressing than the dried itch of his sweat.

He was just going to get sweatier, anyhow.


	9. Galahad, Gawain, Tristan

Gawain came to realize there was a problem when Galahad and Tristan nearly killed each other in the practice ring.

They all sparred against each other, keeping their wits and their skills sharp over the long winter months. But sometime when Gawain hadn’t been looking, Galahad and Tristan had stopped sparring, and were actually fighting.

It took Bors and Dagonet to separate the two – but the oddest part was when both of them turned to Gawain with a certain light in their eyes and a wistful twist of their lips.

Gawain didn’t stay for Dagonet to patch either of them up. The lure of the alehouse was far more tempting. Especially when his two wounded shadows arrived, just in time to follow him back to his room.


	10. Gawain/Tristan

The first time the scout pinned him to a tree, Gawain had been too dazed to do much about it. His blood still singing from battle, the world had gone hazy at the edges, but there was Tristan, and the pull of his mouth on Gawain’s flesh gave the world definition and shape.

The second time Tristan had come to him had also been after battle. Still bearing the blood of their enemies on their flesh, they had faded away into the brush, rough hands grasping and pulling against leather and metal. It had been hard and brutal, the pain bringing the world back into focus, just long enough for them to tip over and be lost against the pleasure. No one asked them where they had disappeared to, and Arthur himself was gone, dragging Lancelot behind him. Bors had laughed it off, while Dagonet stayed his stoic self. Galahad’s silence had gone unnoticed in the confusion.

The third time, however, had been in Gawain’s room. He had woken, one hand going to the axe next to his bed, with his heart pounding in his throat. That was when Tristan had pounced, pinning Gawain against the rough blankets and had silenced his confused shout with his mouth.

The fourth time had nearly been the last. Gawain’s breath had been short in his throat as he rocked up to meet Tristan’s hard thrusts. He’d tangled his fingers into the scout’s already wild hair and had dragged him closer, until he could breathe in Tristan’s breath, and they moved as one.

The battle with the Saxons was an ugly memory Gawain chose not to remember. His heart always hurt when he remembered Tristan on his knees, his lifeblood seeping through his armor and his head thrown back to stare at the sky. If it hadn’t been for Galahad and Arthur, the scout would have died that day.

And now, this fifth time, wrapped up tight in the dark of Gawain’s room, Tristan tucked his head under Gawain’s chin and wrapped bony, muscled arms around the knight’s chest and held on tight. It wasn’t fast, or brutal, or hard. It was slow, and strange, like a fever dream, only better because it was real and it wouldn’t fade. Gawain ran a hand through the scout’s thick hair and shuddered, his heart pounding in his chest, even as starbursts of color painted the dark light. It was the fifth time, but was perhaps also the first. But not the last, no. Not the last.


End file.
